


Treasure

by electricalgwen



Category: Bleach
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-17 10:27:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricalgwen/pseuds/electricalgwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ishida plans to break into Mayuri's lab, hoping to regain some of the treasured artifacts of the Quincy. Ichigo finds out and insists on going along to keep him out of trouble, but things don't quite go as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Treasure

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the round 2.5 minibang at [](http://bleachbigbang.livejournal.com/profile)[**bleachbigbang**](http://bleachbigbang.livejournal.com/) , these ~7600 words are rated R and are set rather vaguely in the timeline but contain minor references to the Bount arc. Art by the talented [](http://imlikat.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://imlikat.livejournal.com/)**imlikat**. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Bleach is the creation of Kubo Tite. Characters appearing here are fictional and are intended to be of the legal age of consent regardless of whatever age they may be in the material they are derived from.

[ ](http://www.flickr.com/photos/30757721@N00/7285640052/)

It had been a good plan, before Kurosaki got involved.

“You’re doing _what?_ ”

“Kurosaki, it doesn’t concern you,” Ishida replied shortly. “Let me talk to Kuchiki-san, please.”

“Not until you tell me what you’ve got in mind!”

If only he’d had a way to contact her directly. He wouldn’t be here, feeling his face flush with annoyance, as the substitute shinigami held the phone out of his reach. He lunged for it, but Kurosaki jumped back and snickered as Ishida’s fingers closed on thin air.

“The less you know, the better.”

“Uh-uh.” Kurosaki shook his head. “You’re an enemy of the Shinigami, remember?” His mocking tone and sidelong look made it perfectly clear how much he believed this. “I don’t think I should let you drag Rukia into something without checking it out first.”

As if Ishida would _ever_ do anything to endanger Kuchiki Rukia. And Kurosaki knew that perfectly well. He was just being his usual obstructive, annoying, self.

“I have no intention of dragging Kuchiki-san into anything.” He folded his arms and glared. “I merely wish to ask a small favor of her.”

“Of your enemy,” Kurosaki mocked him.

“Will you leave that alone?” Ishida said, exasperated. “This is none of your business, and you’re not Kuchiki-san’s guardian. I just want to talk to her.”

“You said that already.” Kurosaki shrugged. “I heard you, you know, talking to Inoue. You’re planning to make a visit to Soul Society.”

Ishida gritted his teeth. This was really not something he wanted to involve Kurosaki in. “Maybe. What if I am?”

Kurosaki tilted his head. “So why do you want to go? What’s the big secret?” A smirk spread across his face. “Ha, Ishida! Do you have a thing for Rukia?”

“What? No!” Ishida spluttered. He could feel his face turning pink, and his glasses sliding down his nose. It was amazing how Kurosaki always managed to embarrass him, even when it was the other boy who should be ashamed of his outlandish statements.

“Hmm,” Kurosaki said, regarding him closely. Ishida tried to re-establish his composure, but only blushed harder. He was probably red to the tips of his ears by now. No wonder Kurosaki wasn’t looking convinced. Only now that Kurosaki had brought up the question of Ishida’s romantic leanings⎯well, it was difficult to pull himself together and ignore the object of said romantic leanings, who was in fact leaning on Ishida’s desk and staring at him intently.

Kurosaki Ichigo, who had disturbed Ishida’s cool composure from his very first day at school. Who had repeatedly dragged Ishida into fights and friendship, refusing to let him be his usual, lone self.

 _Lonely eyes,_ Yoshino had said, and she’d been right, more right than she knew. There’s a difference between alone, and lonely, and Ishida had thought he had banished loneliness long since, locked it away and stitched himself up tight.

He’d been alone for years. Had known himself alone, accepted it, grown to cherish it even. Wrapped up tight in white and blue and pride. When the arrows flamed to life, they were cold, a blue-white fire that sang through him with the clarity of ice. Everything was clear, clean, laid out and ordered, and he needed nothing more.

And then Kurosaki, damn him, had come along. A boy with no sense of propriety or self-restraint. A shinigami, with his reiatsu as bad as his hair: wild, flaming and uncontrollable.

He’d flooded into Ishida’s life like a wave, sloshing in around the foundations, filling any space with the overpowering strength of his soul.

And it burned.

Ishida Uryuu still had his pride, though, and he clung to it at times like these. He couldn’t imagine anything worse than Kurosaki realizing how pathetically lovestruck he was. How he treasured those rare moments when Kurosaki praised his efforts in a fight, or even more rarely smiled at him, honest and open and unreserved.

He pulled himself together and pushed his glasses up his nose.

“It is not a matter of the heart,” he said, managing to keep his voice from wavering in the slightest. “It is a matter of pride. The pride of the Quincy.”

After a long moment, Kurosaki sighed, and handed over the phone. “Of course it is. I should have known. Even your choice of _underwear_ is a matter of the Pride of the Quincy.”

Ishida managed not to swallow his tongue at the thought of Kurosaki seeing his underwear (which, fine, _was_ white and blue, but they’re very sensible colors), and hit Rukia’s number on speed dial.

“Hello, Kuchiki-san! I was wondering if I could impose upon you for a favor?” He glared at Kurosaki, who was noticeably _not_ moving back a polite distance as any normal person would. He waved a hand in a shooing motion, but Kurosaki merely smirked again, and Ishida gave up.

“I was wondering if you would allow me the use of your Senkai Gate? I wish to enter Soul Society without, er, going there officially... No, this is my personal business, Kurosaki is not involved⎯”

“Hey, Rukia!” Kurosaki hollered. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep him out of trouble!”

“Will you _shut up!_ ” Ishida snapped. “Kuchiki-san, I assure you…”

She laughed in his ear. “You’re not going to be able to get rid of him.”

“I don’t need him trailing along,” Ishida gritted out through clenched teeth.

“Sorry, Ishida-kun. I’d like to help you, but Nii-sama… You know how he feels about Ichigo. I don’t think I should mix him up in whatever mess Ichigo is bound to start.”

Defeated and frustrated as he was, Ishida had to admit she had a point. Kuchiki Byakuya had little love for Ichigo at the best of times.

He thanked her anyway, said his good-byes, hung up, and threw the phone at Kurosaki’s insufferable face.

“That was all your fault, you ass!”

Kurosaki shrugged. “You should have told me what you’re planning.”

“You heard me. I want to get into Soul Society without going through the front gate and putting my name on record.”

“I did hear that.” Kurosaki narrowed his eyes and Ishida felt the pressure of his reiatsu increase as he focused his attention. “I want to know why.”

Ishida snapped. “Fine! You want to know that badly?” He stomped forward and jabbed a finger against Kurosaki’s chest. “Because I’m going to break into the torture chamber that Kurotsuchi Mayuri has the _nerve_ to call a research facility, and reclaim the lost treasures of the Quincy!”

“I _knew_ it!”

Ishida gave him a disbelieving look. “You did _not._ ”

“Not the details, maybe. But you were all, ‘oh, the pride of the Quincy’⎯it had to have something to do with Mayuri. I thought maybe you were going there to do something unbelievably stupid like fighting him.”

“If I were, I wouldn’t need your help,” Ishida muttered, dropping his arm and backing away. Kurosaki had the unexpected grace not to call him out on that, although it was almost certainly untrue. “No, Mayuri’s away from Seireitei for a few days. He’s gone to run some experiments on a new Hollow repellent. Abarai-kun told me about it when he stopped by my apartment last week. I’m planning to sneak into his lab while he’s gone.”

Kurosaki frowned. “What makes you think there’s something there to find?”

“There has to be.” Ishida’s spent many sleepless nights since facing down the captain of the Twelfth Division, thinking about the fate of his Quincy forebears. “He captured Quincy. He observed and tested their abilities, and eventually killed them; he would have kept their tools. You know the bracelet that acted as a substitute for my powers? That came from Mayuri’s lab. There have to be more Quincy artifacts there.”

“They’d be useful,” Kurosaki observed, but Ishida could tell from his tone of voice that he understood there was more to it than that. Weapons, armor⎯whatever he found might be useful, but whether it was or not, it was his heritage. It belonged with the last of the Quincy, not in the hands of an amoral psychopath. It was, as he’d said, a matter of honor. “I can see why you’d want them back.”

Ishida nodded. “Yes. So you can see why I need to get into Soul Society secretly.”

“For sure,” Kurosaki nodded. “Good thing you broke down and told me. I’ll be even more help to you with this plan.”

“No way!” Ishida spluttered. “I’m planning to sneak in and steal things from a guarded facility. You’re still appallingly bad at controlling your reiatsu.” He crossed his arms and glared. “What on earth makes you think you would be of any use whatsoever to me?”

Kurosaki didn’t look at all chagrined by Ishida’s disdain. “That’s exactly the point.”

“What is?” Ishida tried not to let his surprise show on his face.

Kurosaki’s grin let him know he’d failed, which only made Ishida more irritated. “Sure, you can hide your spiritual presence from me. Even from Rukia or Renji, maybe. But you really think you can hide from Mayuri? That crazy bastard’s an expert on reishi, and he was studying Quincy before you were born. He’ll probably know the minute you walk through his door⎯that is, assuming he doesn’t _already_ know what you’re up to⎯and even if he doesn’t, he’s bound to sense the echoes of your reiatsu when he gets back.”

Ishida frowned in annoyance. He hated it when Kurosaki made sense.

“Which is why we’ll go together,” Kurosaki went on. “With all the spiritual noise I make, he won’t even notice you were hiding in my shadow.”

“ _Hiding?_ ” Ishida spat out. “I won’t _hide_ behind a Shinigami!”

Kurosaki ignored his outburst and kept on talking. “It’s the perfect plan. You’re so fond of telling me how I bleed reiatsu all over the place. Well, here’s a chance for it to be useful.”

Ishida didn’t want to admit it, but it made a certain kind of insane sense. “Aren’t you afraid of what Mayuri’ll do to you? What’s your excuse for breaking in in his absence?”

“I’ll tell him I was hoping to catch Nemu by herself.” Kurosaki waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Ishida scoffed. “Like he’d believe that.”

“What?” Kurosaki laughed and spun around, holding his arms out. “You saying she wouldn’t want a piece of this?”

_Who wouldn’t?_

Ishida swallowed the words and instead said curtly, “You’re a pig, Kurosaki.”

“I’m a teenage boy.” The shinigami shrugged. “He’ll probably believe it. Besides, it doesn’t really matter if he does. He can come up with whatever reason he likes for why I was snooping around. The point is for him not to notice _you._ ”

“I could invite Zaraki-san instead.” Ishida quirked his mouth in a faint smile. “He’d be much less hassle.”

Kurosaki snorted. “Please. You know you love me.”

Ishida choked. Kurosaki looked at him curiously, and Ishida promptly went back on the offensive.

“It’s a stupid plan. You think he’s not going to notice that stuff went missing from his lab at the same time you were there?” Ishida shook his head. “He’ll figure it out immediately, even if he doesn’t know I was there. He’ll simply think that you stole things for me.”

“Good point.” Kurosaki frowned, then brightened. “We don’t have to steal them right away. Tonight, we’ll just have a look around, see what we can find. Then you can put that brain of yours to work and come up with a proper plan for how to smuggle stuff out⎯not just Mayuri’s lab, I mean right out of Soul Society.”

“Tonight?” Ishida gaped. “I don’t even have a way in yet. What do you mean, tonight?”

Kurosaki shoved his hands in his pockets. “No point wasting time. Let’s go talk to Urahara. I bet he’ll be able to get us in quietly, no problem.”

Ishida bit his lip.

He looked up to find Kurosaki staring at his mouth for one disconcerting moment. He could feel himself flush. Again. He usually had this under better control. It was just… unusual to have Kurosaki’s full interest and attention focused on him for this long.

“You’re not sure about Urahara.”

Kurosaki could be surprisingly insightful. Usually at the worst of times.

“Otherwise you would have gone to him straight off. You knew he could help. And you wouldn’t have had to go through me to get to Rukia. So, that must mean you don’t want to involve him.”

“I… he’s been very helpful,” Ishida said slowly, trying to verbalize the disquiet he held about the shopkeeper. “But, you’re right. I don’t entirely trust him. He sent us to Soul Society that first time without telling us a _lot_ of things. Like that he was deliberately keeping Rukia from regaining her powers, or that his invention was to blame for all the scheming. Or that the abomination that nearly finished wiping out the Quincy race was a captain there!”

Anger surged in him. He regulated his breathing, clenched his fists, repressing it. “He didn’t warn me about Mayuri. He used Rukia, and risked her life. Some of the things he’s done, and said since then… He trained us, and he’s given us a lot of help, but he’s always got an agenda of his own. I don’t know where his allegiance lies.”

“He’s not part of Soul Society. It’s not like he’s going to tell on us to Mayuri.”

Ishida grimaced. “He may not be part of Soul Society now. But he was. There’s a lot of history there that we don’t understand and we’d be fools to ignore.”

“Okay. So we don’t tell him the real reason we’re going,” Kurosaki shrugged. “I know! Back to my original suggestion. I’ll tell him we’re going to visit Rukia, but that you want to surprise her. Bring flowers or a poem or something.”

Ishida blushed yet again. “I can’t do that! What about Kuchiki-san’s reputation?”

“Eh, it’ll probably do it good. You know Matsumoto will be thrilled.”

Ishida covered his face with his hands. “Oh. No. There is no way I can deal with that.”

“Uh-huh.” Kurosaki clapped his hand on Ishida’s shoulder and Ishida sucked in a quick breath, shocked by the unexpected physical contact and by the heat that flashed through him. “Whatever. The pride of the Quincy compels you. See you tonight.”

He squeezed Ishida’s shoulder and released it, looking out the windown. “Oi, Keigo! Wait up!” He broke into a run as he took off down the corridor.

Ishida stood frozen in place, still feeling ripples of Kurosaki’s reiatsu washing around him, licking at him like pleasurable flames.

________________________________________________________

 

Urahara did not appear to be fooled for even a minute by hastily purchased flowers, Kurosaki’s leer and Ishida’s fierce blushes.

“My, my. Such fuss. Are you going to tell me what you’re really up to?” the shopkeeper inquired from behind his fan, his mild tone at odds with the sharpness of his gaze.

“I told you,” Kurosaki said in a huff, “we’re visiting Rukia. Ishida wants to go.”

“I can tell that Ishida-kun is most keen to visit Soul Society tonight.” Urahara batted his fan closed. “Are you sure you want that kind of trouble?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Ishida said stiffly.

“He is most protective,” Urahara murmured.

“Who?” Kurosaki said, widening his eyes innocently. Ishida wanted to strangle the idiot. Kurosaki had the worst poker face known to man.

Urahara laughed lightly. “Oh, Kuchiki Byakuya, of course! Who else would I mean?” He jumped to his feet. “Well, well. I’m sure you will comport yourselves with the utmost decorum.”

He waved them into the back room. “Right this way.”

 

 

 

The shopkeeper who was once a captain in the Gotei 13 watched the last of the Quincy disappear through the portal and pondered cause and effect.

Sometimes, it could be hard to see the patterns in this life, difficult to say exactly how actions and reactions were intertwined or where the threads of fate might lead.

Other times, fate smacked you right in the face with the consequences of your actions. You didn’t always know what to do about them, but you knew they were your mess to clean up.

“Interesting choice,” Yoruichi said, emerging from the shadows and winding around the legs of the table. Her tail flicked his ankle.

“Yes,” he said. “I believe it’s for the best.”

“I hope you’re right.” She leapt up on the table and poked her nose in a teacup. “Still, perhaps you should have some bandages ready.”

“They won’t come back here.” Urahara scratched her behind the ears. “He doesn’t trust me, you know.”

“Neither do I,” Shihouin Yoruichi said, but she began purring as she said it.

“I do regret that consequence.”

“I know. Kisuke.”

They sat there and shared his tea, pondering the chain of events which had begun with Urahara Kisuke, captain of the Twelfth Division, letting an unutterably dangerous man out of prison and had ended with the near-complete annihilation of a race. Neither of them said anything further. There really was nothing more to say, and they had never needed many words.

________________________________________________________

 

Urahara’s portal dumped them in one of Seireitei’s many winding alleys. Fortunately, it was unoccupied.

They made their way through the shadowed streets, keeping out of sight. It was uncharacteristically easy to avoid patrols. Ishida wondered at that briefly, and then realized it was the first time he’d been in Seireitei when it hadn’t been in a state of high alert. Still, there was the occasional shinigami wandering around. Some were no doubt on official business; from the sound of it, others were making their way home after an evening drinking.

“Keep it down,” he murmured.

Kurosaki’s frown deepened. “I am! That’s your stupid bracelet making that noise!”

“Not physical noise.” _How is it possible I’m attracted to somebody this dense?_ “Your damned reiatsu. I realize your self-control is abysmal, but can you at least try and keep it within limits? You’re kind of recognizable, and I’d rather not announce our presence to everyone within six miles.”

Kurosaki was evidently trying. His spiritual pressure became less noticeable, as he screwed up his face with the effort. It wasn’t perfect, but at least shouldn’t attract undue attention.

“You look constipated,” Ishida murmured. Kurosaki shot him a ferocious glare.

“Catch me helping you again.”

“I didn’t ask you to!”

Kurosaki ignored this, predictably. “Come on, will you?”

Ishida bit back a retort, took a few deep breaths to control his rising blood pressure, and followed.

A few turns later, the tall blank wall of the Twelfth Division’s research facility loomed in front of them. Somewhat to Ishida’s surprise, there was only one guard on the front steps, and he didn’t look overly excited about his job.

“I guess they don’t think anyone in their right mind would try and break in,” Kurosaki murmured. Ishida almost laughed.

“I’ll distract him. You go.”

Kurosaki was gone before Ishida could protest, flash-stepping away. A moment later, there was a crash off to the left.

The guard frowned and leaned forward, peering in that direction, but nothing was visible. He shrugged and started to relax back into his usual stance, but then there was another, louder crash. He put one hand on the hilt of his sword and moved down the stairs, stepping onto the road and turning to look fully down the street⎯where there was still nothing to be seen. In the instant before he turned back, Ishida used _hirenkyaku_ and flashed past him.

He pushed the door open a crack, thanking his lucky stars it moved easily and silently, and slipped through. There was a faint whoosh of air as Kurosaki followed, materializing beside him. The lack of shouting from outside indicated they’d gotten away with it. Ishida very slowly, very quietly pushed the door almost all the way closed again.

“There are a lot of people on this level,” he murmured. “And the one above us. Sleeping, mostly.”

They were in a large ante-room, with a number of corridors leading from it. Moonlight entered through high windows, falling in silver bars across the tiled floor. In the far corner, an iron railing curled around a flight of circular steps that disappeared downwards.

“I don’t see a way up.” Kurosaki frowned. “Must be down one of these hallways. Where do you think his lab is?”

_Underground. So the prisoners lose all track of time, all sense of the world, and nobody can hear them scream._

Ishida clenched his jaw and adjusted his glasses. “Down.”

The certainty in his voice surprised even him. Kurosaki didn’t argue, just stared a moment, then nodded. They skirted the edges of the room rather than cross the floor, keeping out of the moonlight, and headed down the stairs.

The gloom thickened as they descended. Ishida kept to the inner edge of the spiral, where a bit of moonlight still penetrated, but by the time they were six or seven turns down he could barely see his hand in front of his face. He was about to suggest they needed light, even if it risked giving away their presence, when he was jolted by his right foot meeting the floor too soon. He slowed, feeling forward with his left foot, and confirmed that they were on level ground.

He reached out cautiously with his left hand, and had just identified the wall or door in front of him when Kurosaki crashed into his back and knocked him up against it.

Ishida allowed himself precisely one second to enjoy being pinned up against the wall with Kurosaki blanketing his back, and then shoved backwards hard. “Get _off_ me, you oaf.”

“Well, _sorry!_ ” There was a shuffle as Kurosaki moved away. “I can’t see a damn thing, how was I supposed to know you’d stopped?”

“You have ears,” Ishida snapped. He felt around the surface in front of him, and located a handle.

He pushed the door open, and blinked in the sudden, unexpected flare of light.

It wasn’t bright, he realized as his eyes adjusted, merely unexpected after the blackness. Dim ceiling-mounted globes illuminated a broad hallway that stretched out as far as he could see into the distance, punctuated by bland, identical doors at regular intervals. Either the building had some of that bigger-on-the-inside dimensional magic going on, or the Twelfth Division had undermined their neighbors substantially.

Kurosaki was crowding in behind him, staring over his shoulder. He moved into the corridor, letting the other boy come up beside him.

“We don’t have time to search all these. Can you sense anything?”

Ishida extended his senses, keeping his focus narrow and channeling power as subtly as he could.

“There’s… something,” he said slowly. “Maybe two hundred yards in. On the left, I think.”

It felt at once new and utterly familiar, a thing known in dreams or shades of memory. Something was reaching out to him. Calling him. Something missing a master.

He shivered, momentarily disquieted by the thought that perhaps his coming here hadn’t been entirely his own idea.

There was another thing nagging at him, though. He concentrated harder, staring at the hallway: the repeated doors, the lights, the tiles. The occasional faint shadow; tiny irregularities.

“Automated defense system,” he said. “Move carefully.”

Kurosaki noticed the tripwire before he did, which was annoying, but then walked right into the next trap. The dart that shot out of a tiny hole in the wall, directly through the space where Kurosaki had been milliseconds before, embedded itself in the far wall. Its tip was smoking slightly.

Kurosaki peered round Ishida’s shoulder, having materialized behind him. “Whoa. I wonder what’s on that.”

“Poison, I expect. Something nasty.”

“Not very safe, this. It’s not like this area’s even locked! Anyone could wander through by accident.”

Ishida didn’t bother to dignify this with a response, especially as the call was getting stronger. _Maybe whatever it is, is somehow reacting to my approach?_

He turned his head slightly side to side, seeking.

“Two more doors,” he murmured and moved forward. Carefully.

The door didn’t appear to be booby-trapped. But it _was_ locked.

“I can break it down,” Kurosaki suggested.

“With what, Getsuga Tenshou?” Ishida said acidly. “Does the concept of overkill mean anything to you? Get out of the way. I have a technique that’s much more subtle.”

Kurosaki huffed. “Using Quincy techniques kind of defeats the point of this whole sneaking-around exercise. You might as well write him a letter saying, please can I have my stuff back.”

“I didn’t say it was a Quincy technique,” Ishida murmured, not bothering to suppress a smug grin. “Please move, Kurosaki.”

It’s amazing what you can do with a needle, really. He didn’t even have to resort to a safety pin.

Kurosaki’s fish-mouthed expression was even more satisfying than the quiet click as the door swung open, although he quickly schooled his features and rolled his eyes at Ishida.

With the door open, Ishida could feel the call still more strongly. It was odd, what he was sensing: not a personality exactly, not something that fully realized, but not merely an object either. It had an… eagerness to it, a seeking.

Kurosaki’s eyes were bright. _He gets off on this_ , Ishida thought. _The adrenaline._

The thought was distractingly arousing, as was the subtle but definite increase in the overflow of Kurosaki’s spiritual force.

Ishida mentally slapped himself back into focus, and frowned at his companion. “You shouldn’t come in. Mayuri _might_ believe you had a more-or-less innocent motive for wandering around the place, but there’s no way you can justify breaking into a locked storage room.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll go cautiously. I won’t disturb anything. This room has Quincy stamped all over it anyway.”

He took a couple of steps across the threshold, holding up his hand preemptively when Kurosaki moved to follow. “Stay out there. I mean it.”

The room was large, with bare white walls and floor tiled in an irregular pattern of black and white. There was a sizeable clear space in front of the door, with a drain in the gently sloping floor. A low wooden desk sat against the wall to the right, some papers piled neatly on its surface. To the left…

His stomach clenched and flipped over at the sight of the various implements hung on the wall. Some he recognized, from visits to the hospital; others, he didn’t even want to guess at the function of.

He forced his eyes away and looked towards the back wall, where rows and rows of shelves ran, floor to ceiling, all with neat labels. Mayuri’s collection.

_Here. Come here._

The call was joyful, almost sibilant.

He started to move towards it and suddenly, his spiritual sense cut out.

He couldn’t feel Kurosaki anymore. He couldn’t feel the Twelfth Division sleeping on the floors above. He could barely feel anything. If he really strained, he could still distantly hear the call of the Quincy artifact but it was muffled, as if he were miles under water, or someone had thrown a blanket over him.

Ishida spun in horror, and saw Kurosaki walking into the room toward him.

“What have you _done?_ ”

Kurosaki looked far too proud of himself. “It’s a gizmo I got from Urahara. Reiatsu dampener! Cool, huh?”

“ _Turn it off!_ ” Ishida hissed, taking a step towards the idiot. “It’s not just hiding you! I can’t sense anything! I won’t be able to sense⎯”

 _A trap_ , his mind completed a moment too late, as his foot sank an inch below floor level.

Kurosaki obviously saw it too. One hand went for his sword as he leapt forward, colliding with Ishida and knocking him out of the way of the beam of light that shot through the space over the black tile that had sunk into the floor.

Unfortunately, he knocked them onto the next one. Ishida ducked, shoved Kurosaki away, and leapt sideways⎯landing on another sinking tile.

Light shot from three directions and met in the center of the room, colliding into a ball that merged and spun. The beams faded, but the ball of light continued to spin and grow, crackling and emitting little sparks.

“We should go!” Kurosaki called. “That looks like it’s going to explode any minute.”

“Switch your damn thing off!” Ishida yelled. “It’s _here!_ I could feel it!”

“What?”

“Whatever I came for!” Ishida moved towards the back of the room in an odd sort of dance, stepping only on the white tiles. “I can get it, just let me…”

The ball of light flared, white-hot. Tendrils of light sprang out from it in different directions, lashing through the air.

“Ishida! Come on. It’s not… not worth it!” Kurosaki’s voice faded in and out as he flashed, side-stepping the attacks. “Let’s go!”

Ishida ignored him, heading for the shelves, for where he’d last felt the thing. He ducked and darted, bringing up his bow and firing right at the heart of the thing. It only crackled harder, and a flurry of attacks slashed in his direction.

Ishida managed to dodge most of them.

His bangs slipped from behind his ear and fell across his glasses. It obscured his vision for only the briefest moment, but that was enough: one of the whips of light caught him across the left wrist, and another sliced his right temple.

He cried out, his bow falling away from his target, and watched in shock as the weapon faded completely. The wounds didn’t hurt⎯at _all,_ which was probably a bad sign. Come to that, he couldn’t really feel his whole left arm. He looked down and saw it hanging slack at his side, blood running down and dripping from his limp fingers.

_“Ishida!”_

The panicked cry came from above him. He tried to turn his head to look, but the movement made him dizzy, and blood ran into his eyes. Through its stinging curtain, he could see another tendril of light rearing up for an attack. He raised his right arm instinctively to deflect what he could, and tried to dodge. His foot slipped on his own blood and he felt himself falling.

He never hit the ground.

Kurosaki was somehow everywhere: breaking Ishida’s fall and gripping his wrist; slicing the tendrils into tiny pieces that shimmered into ash; dragging them to the door and slamming it shut⎯after firing a last blast into the ball of light.

Three seconds after the door shut, it shuddered violently as an explosion hit it from the inside.

Kurosaki lowered Ishida to the ground. One hand was still wrapped around his left wrist, stemming the flow of blood; with the other, he folded a piece of Ishida’s cape up under his head to cushion it. Ishida tried to protest and sit up, but he only had one working arm to push himself up with, plus every time his head got more than a few inches off the ground he started getting dizzy again.

“Hold still, you moron,” Kurosaki said. There was a ripping sound. Ishida tried to look, gave up as his head spun, and then felt Kurosaki binding his left wrist with long strips of cloth.

“Is that your shihakusho?” he mumbled. “How does that work? Can you mend it? Does it just magically come back intact the next time you do…” he flopped his right hand at Kurosaki, “this?”

“Trust you to worry about tailoring when you’re half dead,” Kurosaki snapped, and Ishida frowned. Maybe his brain was scrambled, but Kurosaki didn’t sound angry so much as… worried.

He felt Kurosaki’s fingers probing at the wound on his temple, surprisingly gentle, and then Kurosaki lifted his head and wrapped several strips of makeshift bandage around it. “There. They need cleaning, but that should hold until I can get us home.”

“I can get myself home,” Ishida said, but it came out less outraged and more questioning than he would have liked and the shinigami, predictably, ignored him.

“Stay there.”

Kurosaki stood, pushed the door open and had a look around, then shut it again and grinned down at Ishida. “That’s handy. The explosion pretty much singed the floor and burnt all the walls. I don’t think there’s a trace of your blood left in there. There’s no way they won’t notice someone broke in, obviously, but with luck they won’t ID us.”

“We need to go.” Ishida struggled to sit, adrenaline rushing through him. “Someone must have heard that.”

“Quit moving! You’ll start bleeding again.”

Kurosaki knelt down beside Ishida again and tugged at his shoulder, rolling him onto his side. “Okay, there’s only a little here. Hold still and give me a moment to clean it up.”

He tore another strip off his clothes, spat on it, and mopped at the floor. “Good enough.”

He bent down and picked Ishida up, slinging over his shoulder. Ishida yelped in protest and began to struggle. “Kurosaki! Stop molesting me and put me _down!_ I can walk perfectly well!”

He reached up with his right arm, grabbing at Kurosaki’s shoulder and trying to raise his head. “I mean it, let me…”

 _Go,_ he thought, as he fell back into blackness.

________________________________________________________

 

He woke up and wondered briefly what had possessed him to sleep on the couch.

Then he came more fully awake, remembered the evening’s events, and sat bolt upright.

He promptly fell back down again, head spinning and throbbing.

“You never listen, do you?”

Kurosaki’s voice. Kurosaki was _in his house._ Ishida panicked, sat up again, and got shoved down by a hand in the middle of his chest.

“You,” Kurosaki enunciated slowly and clearly, “are an idiot who scared the shit out of me. You’ve lost a lot of blood, and you have a head wound that needs stitches. Now swallow your damn Quincy pride and lie still before I lose my patience and take you to the hospital.”

“It’s not that serious,” Ishida mumbled. “There’s a medical kit in the bathroom with suture supplies in it. Just… give me a minute to rest, then I’ll sew it up.”

“Don’t be an idiot. You can’t even see it.”

Ishida rolled his eyes. “What do you think mirrors are for, Kurosaki?”

“I’m not letting you do it yourself. You can hardly keep your eyes open, you’d have to work right-handed, and you can’t even stand up! You’ll just end up passing out and breaking your nose on the bathroom sink.”

“Surprised you didn’t break it slamming me into that wall,” Ishida muttered.

“Shut up, that was totally your own fault. Anyway, I’ve got the kit right here. Take these.”

He held out two pills. Ishida opened his mouth to protest that he wasn’t in much pain, but met Kurosaki’s glare and instead popped the pills in. Kurosaki handed him a cup of water, and Ishida swallowed them.

“Okay. Now hold still and let me take a look.”

Kurosaki sat on the coffee table near Ishida’s head and leaned in. His fingers carefully loosened the cloth around Ishida’s head and pulled it free. Ishida hissed slightly as some of his hair was pulled out, stuck to the fabric by clotted blood. Evidently, though, the wounded area was still numb, since he didn’t feel a thing as the sticky bandage was peeled off. Kurosaki then removed Ishida’s glasses, folding them carefully and setting them on the table.

There was a bowl of warm water on the table, and some clean cloths. Kurosaki soaked one and began to clean Ishida’s temple with deft, gentle movements.

It felt nice. Not that he could feel the area very well, but the warmth was nice and it was pleasant to have someone taking care of him. The painkillers were kicking in and his headache was receding. His eyes fell closed and he relaxed into Kurosaki’s touch.

“Okay.” There was a faint clink as Kurosaki set the bowl aside. “Do you have any local anesthetic?”

“Don’t need it,” Ishida murmured. “Doesn’t hurt. Just do it.”

He could hear the click of the needle driver, the whisper of the suture pulling through flesh, and the snap as Kurosaki cut the thread, but he still couldn’t feel any of it.

“How many?” he asked. Not that it mattered. Just making conversation.

“Four, I think.”

Kurosaki’s breath ghosted over Ishida’s face as he answered. Ishida’s own breath caught, and he shivered.

“You okay? I’m nearly done.”

“How did we get here?”

“Rukia.”

Ishida opened his eyes in surprise, then kept them open, because the view was highly enjoyable. Kurosaki’s face was close above his, lips pursed in concentration as he patched Ishida back together.

“I hauled you to their place and went to her window. She sent us back through their gate, and gave me some stuff for your arm. Something from the Fourth Division.”

Ishida had almost forgotten about his arm. He tried to wiggle his fingers, experimentally, but couldn’t tell if they were responding.

“It should be better by morning. I’ll put some on here too when I’m done.”

“Did you sew up my arm?” Ishida began to turn his head, then caught himself just in time.

“Yeah. You were still out of it.”

“I hope we don’t get her into trouble.”

Kurosaki shrugged. “Not her fault we showed up covered in blood, is it? Byakuya can bitch, but the best way for her to avoid more trouble for them was getting us the hell out of there.”

He cocked his head and eyed his handiwork, then laid the suturing tools down and picked up a small pot of stuff that smelled of lemongrass. He dipped a finger in and smeared some on Ishida’s temple, then peeled open a sterile packet and taped a bandage in place.

“There you go. Should heal almost invisibly.” Kurosaki grinned, quick and elusive. “Wouldn’t want to ruin that pretty face.”

Ishida felt himself flush, as Kurosaki looked at him. He knew the other boy didn’t mean it, it was a joke, but⎯for one moment, his breath hitched and he couldn’t keep from wishing. Kurosaki was too close, too much, and Ishida could breathe in his breath, almost as if…

There was the slightest change as Kurosaki’s expression froze, and Ishida was flooded with panic, ice water sluicing through his veins. He’d given himself away, let it show in his moment of weakness. Kurosaki _knew._

A shiver ran over his whole body. He turned his head, so as to let his glasses catch and reflect the light, shuttering away his eyes⎯but his glasses were still on the table.

Kurosaki’s fingers were gentle on his chin, turning him inexorably back. Blue eyes met brown again, and Ishida gulped.

“Hey, what is it? You cold?”

Ishida couldn’t get any words out. He nodded.

“Do you have any spare blankets?” Kurosaki slid an arm under Ishida and lifted him to a sitting position. “Let’s get you to bed; you’ll be warmer. I’ll stay here tonight. That couch looks comfortable.”

“It’s not,” Ishida mumbled. “You don’t have to. I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.” Kurosaki pulled him to his feet, and Ishida’s knees buckled with the first step.

“I’ve had a lot worse. We both have.”

“It doesn’t make it any easier.”

Ishida tipped his head back, surprised by the strain in the other’s voice. He found himself staring at Kurosaki’s clenched jaw, head resting on Kurosaki’s shoulder, as the other boy half-dragged him to the bedroom.

It was pathetic how Ishida wanted to believe this was something it wasn’t.

“Seeing someone get hurt, someone you…” Kurosaki coughed. “Someone you care about. It’s hard every time. And worse when you know it’s your own damn stupid fault.”

He paused at the door of Ishida’s bedroom, then continued in. Ishida was tripping over his own feet at this point, and was having a little trouble following the conversation⎯had Kurosaki just implied that he _cared_ about Ishida? ⎯but that didn’t sound right. “Not your fault. It was a bad idea.”

“No, it wasn’t. It was a good plan, until I fucked it up. I didn’t want to let you risk it alone, and then I ended up making a dumb mistake.” Kurosaki sat them both down on the edge of the bed, then eased Ishida down against the pillows. “You’re hurt, and it was my fault. I’m sorry, Ishida.”

Hearing Kurosaki, who never apologized for anything, say those words⎯Ishida thought maybe he’d passed out again and was dreaming. This impression was reinforced when Kurosaki gently touched the bandage on his temple, and stroked the hair back from Ishida’s forehead, carding his fingers through the strands.

“Should have left you alone.”

Kurosaki shifted his weight and made to stand.

“Don’t want you to,” Ishida heard himself say.

The other boy froze, half-raised off the bed. He turned, looked at Ishida, and Ishida _knew_ he was out of his mind but still… he would swear that wasn’t just concern in Kurosaki’s gaze. Bewilderment, and… hope?

“Don’t go,” Ishida said. A small part of him deep inside was screaming at him, demanding to know what was in that medicine anyway, but the rest of his mind felt wrapped in a happy, fuzzy blue blanket and all it knew was that he didn’t want to lose Kurosaki’s hand petting through his hair. “I like you here.”

“You’re pretty out of it, huh?” Kurosaki’s voice was overly bright. “Get some rest, Ishida. I’ll be out there if you need anything.”

“I know what I need,” Ishida whispered, eyes fixed on Kurosaki’s mouth.

It felt like an eternity that they stared at each other, unmoving, until Ishida let out a frustrated moan and shoved himself up on his right elbow, raising his face to Kurosaki’s and kissing him.

The kiss was ill-aimed, uncoordinated, and all too brief as Ishida’s balance gave out and he fell back again.

Kurosaki was staring down at him, eyes wild. “You… Uryuu, I…”

“Sorry,” Ishida whispered in shame, closing his eyes.

He snapped them open again when a hand was laid along his cheek. Kurosaki was leaning over him, and there was a tenderness and vulnerability in his gaze that was completely at odds with his usual fierce rudeness.

“I’m not,” Kurosaki said, and leaned in and kissed him again.

Ishida moaned and opened his mouth, reaching up with his good hand to grip the front of Kurosaki’s shirt. He sucked on Kurosaki’s tongue, not breaking the seal between their mouths as he wriggled sideways, making room beside himself. He kept tugging on the other boy’s shirt until Kurosaki lowered himself to the bed next to Ishida.

Kurosaki’s touch was like a seam-ripper, undoing all Ishida’s tiny, painstaking stitches. He was coming apart, all his care and restraint and self-control unraveling. Kurosaki’s mouth on his, hands soothing down his sides, little murmurs of wonder: it was more than he’d ever dared hope for. But he could tell that Kurosaki was holding back, being gentle with him and his injuries⎯Ishida wanted more and apparently in this state he knew no shame.

“Ichigo,” he murmured, arching his back and pressing his hips against the other boy’s.

Ichigo made a small, strangled noise that sent wonder through Ishida. _He_ made Kurosaki, the unbreakable, insufferable Kurosaki, whimper with desire?

Ichigo bit at his throat, his collarbone and shoulder, before moving up to kiss him again, swallowing the moans from Ishida’s mouth. He gripped Ishida’s hips hard and moved against him, providing heat and friction and making Ishida groan with need.

Ishida could barely breathe, and it wasn’t just from the onslaught of kissing. Ichigo’s hands were brands on his skin, heat melting the ice that had been there so long. The tight seal somewhere inside his soul broke apart and he couldn’t contain it. Blue white flares spilled everywhere, washing over them both: Ichigo poured it out, he sucked it in, spun it, released it, an ongoing spiral around them.

He came with a strangled cry, body jerking under Ichigo’s.

Ichigo held his weight off Ishida, staring down at him with wonder.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. “So beautiful, Uryuu.”

He leaned down and pressed another kiss to Ishida’s lips, then settled on his back beside him. Ishida could feel the jerky movements as Ichigo tugged at his own clothes, working a hand inside.

Ishida’s lips were numb, his mind was blown, and he still didn’t have the use of his left arm, but he wanted, needed, to make Ichigo feel good. He rolled onto his side and reached for Ichigo with his right hand.

“It’s okay, I’m good,” Ichigo said hoarsely, breath panting hot against Ishida’s neck, and hand now moving furiously over his groin. “Stay still, don’t hurt yourself, you idiot.”

Ishida ignored him, sliding his hand into Ichigo’s clothes and covering the other boy’s fingers with his own.

The moment their hands touched, Ichigo groaned and threw his head back; Ishida curled his fingers, gripping Ichigo’s hand and cock, and felt the spasms rock Ichigo’s whole body as he came, pulsing hot and wet over their joined hands.

They lay there in silence for several moments. Ishida’s head was spinning again. He reluctantly pulled his hand back, wiping it on the bedclothes.

“We better clean up,” Ichigo muttered, sitting up. “Stay here, I’ll be back in a minute.”

Ishida lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling, listening to the rustle of clothing and running water. After a moment, he realized it was entirely possible Ichigo would try and assist him; the horrified embarrassment of this had him struggling to get out of his pants and sticky underwear one-handed. He was still kicking free of them, though had had the forethought to pull up the sheets to cover himself, when Ichigo returned holding a wet cloth.

“Uh, do you need⎯”

 _“No,”_ Ishida gritted out, taking the cloth and trying not to blush. Ichigo stood there awkwardly, looking alternately at the floor and ceiling, until Ishida finished and threw the cloth at the hamper in the corner. He missed.

Ichigo, thankfully, didn’t go over and retrieve it. Instead, he sat down on the bed, resting his chin on folded hands. His hair was in even more disarray than usual. Ishida tried and failed not to find it adorable.

“So.”

“So.”

Ichigo turned his face towards Ishida, eyes shuttered and inscrutable. Ishida’s heart fell.

“I probably shouldn’t have done that.”

It didn’t just fall, it smashed in tiny pieces on a cold stone floor.

“Probably not,” he managed to croak out.

Ichigo reached out and laid his hand along the side of Ishida’s face as he had before. Ishida blinked in confusion.

“I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you when you’re like this. I’m sorry. Again.”

Ishida’s mouth fell open. Ichigo’s thumb was stroking over his cheekbone, and his gaze was still guarded, but tender. It was as if Ishida wasn’t simply an opportunity, something that could provide a night’s pleasure, but something to be cherished.

“I’ll leave you to rest.”

“No,” Ishida said as clearly as he could, desperately fighting sleep. “I told you, Ichigo. I like you here. Stay.” He infused the last word with as much authority as he could muster.

Ichigo blinked. A look of contented disbelief spread over his face.

“Stay with me,” Ishida murmured, and closed his eyes. He felt Ichigo curl around him, pulling him against the warmth of his body and kissing the top of his hair.

He drifted off to sleep, and his last thought was that the night had brought him an unexpected treasure after all.

 

 

...and this lovely illustration was made by [](http://imlikat.livejournal.com/profile)[**imlikat**](http://imlikat.livejournal.com/). Click on it for full size. :D

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/electricalgwen/pic/0001kb90/)


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